Mid January, 301 AC, through late February, 301 AC
Gilly slid pale feet out of her brown slippers, placing the leather shoes beside the many other pairs that lay in neat rows at the entrance to the sept. It still felt odd, to remove her shoes whenever she entered one of the graceful stone buildings these Dornish favored.
"You don't have to pray to the Seven," Princess Sansa had told her shortly after arriving in Sunspear. "You may keep the old gods, if you wish; my lord husband gifted me weirwood saplings so that I might have some reminder of home."
The princess did not pry when Gilly softly refused, unable to confess that she had never kept the old gods. Craster worshipped the cold gods, and his wives had no choice but to share his fervent devotion to the monsters who stole their sons. What little she knew of the old gods came from Craster's mockery of the fools who prayed to trees, just as what she knew of the Seven came from Craster's mockery of the fools who prayed to a god with seven faces.
She had learned more, since leaving Craster's Keep. Sweet Sam had begun teaching her with the songs he sang to her son, the pretty hymns that told of a just Father, a loving Mother, a dancing Maiden, a wise Crone, a fierce Warrior and a toiling Smith. The hymns did not sing of the Stranger, neither male nor female, faceless in a dark cloak woven from the darkness of the night sky.
Gilly knelt beside the other maids, careful not to crowd Rya, who already sat with her head bowed, her upturned palms held before her heart. The maid was friendlier since Princess Sansa's arrival, but still prickly, like the hedgehog Buttercup once found while they were out foraging under Morag's watchful eye.
The septon began with a prayer to the Mother, spoken in the Rhoynish tongue. When Sam spoke of the Seven, he placed the Father first, but the Dornish placed him second after the Mother. Their Mother seemed different than Sam's, a goddess not just of life and children but of rushing rivers and terrible vengeance against those who harmed her people. She did not understand the bit about rivers, but vengeance... Gilly thought of Dorsten, of the way she guarded her daughters from Morag and all her attempts to shield them from Craster's notice. Dorsten would have slit Craster's throat and laughed, were it not certain that Morag would slay all of Dorsten's children before Craster's body grew cold.
The prayers to the Father were the hardest part of each morning, as Gilly kept her face still and smooth and tried not to think of Craster. The Warrior was easier; she thought of her mother, Grindis, always guarding the young ones from Craster's rage; she thought of Sam, of the terror on his plump face as he led her from Craster's Keep, of his wide eyes as he stumbled out of the longhall to find her and the babe surrounded by dead men with burning blue eyes. She had never known that a crow could be so frightened, yet he saved her all the same.
The Smith was Astrid and her daughters planting barley, oats, and rye, Freltha carving wood with her chisel, Hilsa cobbling shoes with her awl, Birra grinding herbs with her pestle and Briwa mending clothes with her bone needles. The Maiden was Buttercup singing in the summer sun and Dalwen cooing over a mean old garron. The Crone was Ferny, who taught her how to watch and wait and how to make herself disappear when need be.
Disappearing was important. Craster only beat the wives and daughters who drew his attention; to be overlooked was to be safe. At first some of the other servants mocked her strange accent and ragged garb, or bothered her with questions about the wild north. Much as she wanted to run and hide, Gilly knew that would only make it worse. So she listened to the way the Dornish shaped their words, she put on the same robes and pants the other maids wore, and bit by bit, she faded away, just one dark-haired girl among many.
Her day had begun before dawn, as they always had. Gilly crept out of her sleeping cell, careful not to awaken Princess Sansa, who slept in the great featherbed at the center of her chambers, or Ser Olyvar Sand, who sometimes slept in a cushioned chair beside the bed when the princess woke screaming in the middle of the night.
Her son nuzzled against her chest as Gilly padded to Lady Nymella Toland's rooms. His little nose was growing pointier by the day. He almost looked like a fox, hence his milk name, Kit. Her breasts were heavy with milk as she leaned down to pluck the lady's great-niece from her cradle. Little Sylva's mother and father had perished in a flash flood soon after Gilly's arrival, and when the seneschal had asked her to nurse the poor babe, she agreed. She had more than enough milk, and she didn't like that Sylva looked smaller than her six months.
Once the children finished nursing Gilly returned Sylva to Lady Toland's maid and Kit to his basket beside her sleeping pallet. Though he was over a year old, her son still always slept after his morning feeding, freeing Gilly to attend morning prayers. She winced remembering Ser Olyvar's awkward slouch, his neck lolling to one side, his mouth slightly open as he dozed.
The septon announced the closing hymn, and Gilly forgot all about the odd lordling. The hymns were her favorite part of services, dozens of voices raised together in song. They were even better now that she knew the words and music and could sing along.
Her heart was at peace when she returned to the princess's chambers with Rya, but it leaped into her throat when she saw Ser Olyvar. Gilly froze, watching with horror as the lordling tossed her son into the air. For a moment the babe hung there, his dark wisps of hair billowing about his head, then he was falling, a shriek piercing the air as Gilly sprang forward, too late—
The lordling caught the babe easily, one hand under each armpit. Her son was giggling, clapping his hands together like he did when Gilly tickled his belly. Princess Sansa did not share the babe's good humor as she sprang out of bed, eyes wide, face pale.
"What happened?" She demanded, looking from her husband to the maids. "Who screamed?"
Gilly raised a trembling hand. Princess Sansa had yet to shout at her or order a beating, but awakening her lady was surely cause for punishment. Craster had beaten her bloody for less.
"My fault," Ser Olyvar said, to Gilly's complete astonishment. "This little fellow—" he tickled the babe's belly, provoking another giggle "—was awake when I got up. I, er, remembered how much Loree and Doree loved flying when they were babes, and your maid walked in right after I threw him again."
Again? How many times had he thrown her son? Gilly shoved the thought away; highborn could do far worse, if she made them angry. Hiding her panic, she stammered. "I was surprised, princess, I'm so sorry for waking you—"
Princess Sansa was laughing.
"I thought," she giggled. "I thought it was some Lannister assassin, but of course you—" she was laughing so hard she hiccupped, unable to get the words out.
"Mama!" Kit babbled, chubby arms reaching toward Gilly. Ser Olyvar handed the babe over, his face sheepish. Rya turned away, doubtless rolling her eyes as she began building up the fire.
"I'd be more worried about a northern assassin, with the way Lord Robett keeps glaring at me," Ser Olyvar replied with a wry grin. Princess Sansa's giggles abruptly ceased.
"He will listen, he will," she promised as Gilly took her son into her sleeping cell so that she might check the clout Kit wore under his long gown. "Robett Glover is a good man, he just—"
"Remains convinced that I've somehow used my Dornish wiles to ensnare you?"
The princess snorted, a noise Gilly had never heard her make before. "What wiles? You don't have any wiles."
Kit had fouled his clout; Gilly wiped his buttocks with the edges of the cloth before setting it aside for a fresh one.
"—I told Arianne not to let them put on Strongspear the Squire—"
Gilly coughed quietly under her breath as she wrapped the new cloth around Kit's groin. The palace servants were all mad for the mummers' new show, especially those who weren't allowed in the parts of the palace where the Martells lived. They didn't know that Ser Olyvar despaired over the few wispy black hairs dotting his chin and his upper lip, or that he was more likely to absentmindedly braid his wife's loose hair in the evening than dip her in a passionate kiss. Rya said the lanky knight had ten sisters: the Red Viper's nine daughters and his young lady wife.
"—haven't dreamed of Bran in over a year. I had hoped Lord Robett know something, but he said none of the scouting parties found a single trace of him." A dry sob echoed across the room. "He's only ten."
Kit gurgled, unaware of the thoughts running like deer through Gilly's mind. She tried not to think of Coldhands, or his ravens with their bloody beaks, or the terrible ruined castle where he had brought her and Sam. But now she could not stop herself from remembering the wan boy with the red-brown hair and grey-blue eyes, nor the steel in his voice as he commanded Sam to swear a vow of silence.
"Shh, shh, it's alright..." Ser Olyvar stroked Princess Sansa's hair as she wept into his rumpled sleeping shift. "If Bran is half as strong as you and your sister, I'm sure he's well. The North is larger than any other kingdom, you told me so yourself. They'll find him eventually, living like a lord in some abandoned holdfast near the Wall, with a giant pack of wolves and a band of outlaws."
The princess laughed, though Gilly was not sure why.
"If only that were true, but he can't walk!" The laugh had not ceased her sobbing, only paused it for a brief moment. "What if his horse went lame? What if his companions grew ill and died and he could not find food without them? No one has seen him since he left Winterfell—"
Brandon Stark had made Sam swear a vow of silence. So had Jojen Reed, and Coldhands last of all. But no one had made Gilly swear.
"I have."
The princess emerged from her husband's shift, her eyes wide and rimmed with red. Ser Olyvar looked like someone had hit him over the head with something heavy. Suddenly Gilly was glad that Rya had left for the kitchens to fetch the morning tea.
"I saw him at the Nightfort, when Sam and I crossed beneath the Wall. Prince Bran. He had a grey direwolf named Summer, and a lord and a lady with him. Jojen and Meera Reed, he said. They crossed beyond the Wall, looking for some three-eyed crow."
"What." Princess Sansa's voice was flat with shock, her eyes glassy.
"The prince said he had to learn greenseeing." Whatever that means. "Sam wanted to tell Lord Snow so badly, but they made him swear he wouldn't."
Gilly could have told Lord Snow, now that she thought of it, but the crow was half-dead when she met him. When Jon Snow finally rose from his sickbed he was so fierce and yet so frail that she didn't dare, and once he became Lord Commander she feared angering him lest he change his mind about sending her south. Kit's safety came first, always.
"You saw Bran." While the princess was breathing very fast, her hands clutching her face, Ser Olyvar's voice was oddly calm. "How long ago?"
"Almost a year ago, I think, ser."
"Thank you, Gilly." He pressed a kiss to the top of the princess's head as she struggled to stop sobbing. "Breathe, sweetling, like Arya taught you." He turned to Gilly. "Could you please fetch a bath for Princess Sansa, and have the kitchens send up her breakfast?"
"I can go to the bathhouse," the princess gasped through her tears. "If I don't, Arianne's ladies will think something is amiss—"
"Isn't your moonblood due in a few days? If anyone asks Gilly can tell them it started early."
Gilly nodded, glad for any reason to leave the room, and lifted Kit to sling him over her hip.
"Oh— could Kit stay?" The princess asked. "I promise Ser Olyvar won't toss him again."
For a moment Gilly hesitated. At Craster's Keep she would have left Kit with any of her sisters, well, any of them except Morag's daughters or granddaughter.
"I give you my word," Ser Olyvar added.
When Gilly returned it was to find Princess Sansa playing a counting game with Kit, Ser Olyvar nowhere to be seen.
Part of Gilly knew that not all men were like Craster, or the black crows on the Wall, but it still bewildered her to see a man so happy to be around children. Especially when everyone said Ser Olyvar was vicious with a spear in his hand, and so fearless that he'd slain a savage giant and laid its head at the princess's feet. Lady Nym's maid claimed the skull was twice the size of that of an ordinary man; one of Princess Arianne's maids claimed it was being made into a drinking cup as a gift to Princess Elia.
Princess Sansa liked to soak in into the copper tub for a while before being bathed, and as Gilly waited she found her thoughts wandering. She found it hard to imagine Princess Elia drinking from a skull. She'd glimpsed the Dornish princess only a few times when they were at the Water Gardens. Princess Elia was a slim woman in her forties, her dark hair untouched by grey. A golden crown rested easily upon her head, and she sat her wheeled chair as if it were a throne, smiling softly as she watched children play in the pools.
Although... one night she'd struggled to get Kit to sleep. Desperate to close her own eyes, she had taken him outside, hoping the murmur of the fountains would lull him to sleep. She did not know how long she paced, rocking him in her arms, but finally his whimpers ceased, his head lolling against her breast. Afraid of waking him, she kept walking, and as she neared the terrace she heard the sound of people talking, a man and a woman who somehow managed to shout while whispering.
"—the price I paid, yet you would have thrown your life away? If not for those birds you would have died, and Sansa with you!"
"No other knight stepped forward, what else could I do?" Ser Olyvar snapped.
"You could think! Think of the consequences of your actions, you cannot afford to be as reckless as your father—" Ser Olyvar recoiled as if Princess Elia had slapped him, and Gilly fled before someone noticed her.
"Gilly? Gilly?" Princess Sansa called from her tub.
"Coming, princess."
While Gilly bathed the princess she kept half an eye on Kit. He was crawling well now; he managed three circuits of the little courtyard that lay outside the princess's chambers before she helped the princess out of the tub. She combed Princess Sansa's wet hair, careful not to yank on the tangles. Rya reminded her anyway, still suspicious of Gilly's ability to follow basic instructions. Gilly nodded and bit her tongue. She might not yet know every Dornish custom, or understand the complicated garb of highborn ladies, but she could manage combing hair.
Lady Nymella arrived soon after Princess Sansa was dressed. While the older lady gave the princess lessons on the high harp, Gilly nursed both Kit and little Lady Sylva, who had no objection to the strains of sweet music interrupting their meal. Indeed, Lady Sylva quickly fell asleep, though she still suckled now and then.
Kit, on the other hand, scrambled down as soon as his belly was full, and resumed crawling everywhere. One of the older servants had given Gilly her daughter's old toys, an enormous wooden ball the Kit chased across the floor and a pewter bird that he liked to clench in his little fist. Gilly watched closely, ready to leap to her feet if Kit wandered too close to the ladies and their harps. Thankfully, he seemed more interested in pulling himself up and attempting to walk while holding onto a low table of the kind the Dornish favored. When he fell, it was onto one of the floor pillows, the one Princess Sansa knelt on when she took the midday meal in her rooms.
"He's a sweet babe," Lady Nymella said idly as Princess Sansa stared intently at the strings of her harp, her fingers hovering in midair. "It will be good, for Sylva to keep the same wet nurse when we leave."
Gilly had been watching little bubbles of milk grow and pop as Sylva breathed; now she looked up, her heart fluttering. Leave? Was Princess Sansa displeased with her work? Was Lady Toland going to take Gilly away?
"Leave for where?" Gilly ventured timidly. She had only just begun to get used to Sunspear and its hundreds of servants; would she have to begin all over at Ghost Hill?
"You haven't told her?" Lady Toland raised an eyebrow, gesturing for Rya to pour the ladies fresh cups of tea. The Dornish were all mad for tea, a hot drink made from leaves.
"There is still Lord Robett to consider," Princess Sansa replied softly, holding out her cup to be filled. The amber liquid steamed as it filled the clear glass cup; Gilly could almost taste the sweetness from across the room. Beyond the Wall the only sweetness came from honey or fresh fruit; in Dorne they grew sugarcane along the Greenblood and added huge amounts of the fine white grains to their tea.
"Oh, yes, I suppose. A handsome man, if altogether too mistrusting. Really, the King in the North could have sent at least one envoy who wasn't determined to think the worst of us. I thought Lord Woolfield was like to bite my head off when I asked about northern new year traditions. One would think a man with woolsacks for his sigil would have a softer temper."
"I hope he will be gentler today, my lady." Princess Sansa took a careful sip of tea, and soon enough the ladies returned to their harps, Gilly's question forgotten.
When Princess Sansa and Lady Nymella departed for the midday meal with the northern envoys, Gilly remained in the princess's chambers. It would have been peaceful, watching and nursing the babes while Rya let down the hem of one of the princess's gowns, but she could not stop fretting over Lady Nymella's words. Finally, as dusk approached, Gilly gathered up her courage.
"What did Lady Toland mean, about leaving?"
Rya looked up from her sewing, her dark eyebrows creased. "I was hoping you already knew."
"Me?" For once Gilly did not bother to hide her confusion.
"Yes, you," Rya grumbled. "I thought you were in the princess's confidence, being from the north. You talk often enough."
"The princess asks after Kit. And, and she teaches me courtesies," Gilly stammered. Rya sighed, annoyed.
"There's been some talk of Ser Olyvar and Princess Sansa sailing east to tour the Free Cities. Prince Doran went on such a tour in his youth, as did Prince Oberyn. I wonder why Lady Toland would go with them."
Gilly shrugged. Highborn ways were strange, southron ways were strange, and the ways of highborn southrons were entirely beyond her ken. She would never miss the constant fear of Craster's Keep, but she did miss knowing exactly how everyone around her would behave, and how they would expect her to behave.
Princess Sansa did not return to her chambers until after the evening meal. Kit was already asleep; Gilly would need to nurse her son again in the middle of the night. She would not need to worry about Sylva; Lady Toland's maid, Wylla, slept beside the babe's cradle and fed her goat's milk. Rya was gone too; after over a month of instruction she finally trusted Gilly to prepare the princess for bed without assistance.
The bronze circlet was the first thing to go, with its leaping direwolf and weirwood leaves. The envoys had brought it with them, a gift from the princess's kingly brother. Next she removed the jewels that hung at Sansa's ears, then the small silver locket on a chain so long and thin that it disappeared beneath her gown. Then it was time to braid the princess's long red hair, so thick and soft it might almost be mistaken for fur. Gown and kirtle came next; her linen shift and smallclothes remained, as she slept in them.
"Are you going on a journey soon, princess?" Gilly asked as the princess crawled beneath the blankets of her featherbed. Princess Sansa startled, a guilty look upon her pretty face.
"You asked earlier and I forgot to reply. Yes, Ser Olyvar and I intend to begin a tour of the Free Cities in a few weeks, near the start of second moon, most likely. I did intend to speak to you of it, but I had hoped to convince Lord Robett first..." she sighed.
"Never mind. I would hope you would come with me, as my maid. Jon entrusted you to my care; I would not abandon my duty, and Lady Toland would be glad to have you continue to nurse her great-niece. However..." the princess hesitated. "It will be a long journey, Gilly, and there will be danger. Pirates roam the Stepstones, and there are... other perils. Should you wish to remain in Dorne, a place could be found for you with Princess Arianne or with Princess Elia at the Water Gardens. The decision is yours."
Gilly's sleep that night was fitful. She woke before midnight to see Ser Olyvar creep into the room in his shift, settling into the chair beside the bed as he always did on nights when the princess did not ask one of his sisters to serve as her bedmaid. She woke again a few hours later to the sound of Princess Sansa's screams and Ser Olyvar comforting her. Kit awoke too, but Gilly placed him to her breast before he could start wailing.
The next time she awoke was shortly before dawn. Kit slumbered in his basket, Ser Olyvar in his chair. Gilly was not sure why she had awoken, until she saw the shadow limned in moonlight.
A man stood in the arched doorway that led to the courtyard, his mail shimmering silver, his surcoat a dark red. His boots made no sound on the stone floor as he approached, slowly, oh so slowly, his steps avoiding the dark furniture.
Her heart hammered in her throat as Gilly frantically considered what to do. A scream might bring the guards, but what if he summoned the assassin's men? Ser Olyvar had neither sword nor spear—
"Princess?" The assassin murmured. "Princess Sansa?"
Out of time and out of ideas, Gilly abandoned the safety of her sleeping cell and crawled across the floor toward Ser Olyvar, praying that the darkness concealed her as she yanked on his sleeve.
"Princess Sansa?" The assassin asked, slightly louder.
"Who goes there?" The princess's voice trembled with fear.
Then several things happened at once. The assassin drew close to the bed, looming over Sansa like a specter of death. Ser Olyvar jerked awake, his eyes falling on the intruder.
"You!" Ser Olyvar hissed. "What do you think you're doing here?"
"Stop, no—"
The assassin ignored the princess as he drew his blade, the cold steel shining as he pointed the tip toward the Dornish knight.
"You dare ask me that, raper? I should cut out your heart and offer it to the weirwoods for the old gods."
"I gave her those weirwoods," the knight replied, his voice cold. "She told you—"
"Lord Robett, enough—" the princess pleaded.
"She told me what you told her to say!" The blade touched Ser Olyvar's chest. "How many times did you—"
In an instant the cool night air turned frigid, the bed shaking as the princess convulsed. There was a sound like the snapping of bone, and suddenly the assassin was flat on his back, a direwolf the size of a small horse pinning him to the floor.
Gilly clapped her hands over her mouth just barely in time to cover her shriek. Sir Olyvar snatched up the assassin's sword, which had clattered to the floor when the beast pounced on him.
"I think Princess Sansa is tired of you refusing to listen to her," the knight said, trying and failing not to stare at the massive direwolf. "She can't speak until she changes back; I'm going to lock your sword in a chest before she lets you up."
The direwolf snarled, her long snout sniffing at the assassin's belt.
"…I think she wants you to hand over your dagger too."
By some miracle Kit still slept, even when Ser Olyvar stubbed his toe and swore loudly. Careful to avoid both direwolf and assassin, Gilly got to her feet and lit a few candles. While Ser Olyvar locked the blades in a chest it was Gilly's turn to stare open-mouthed at the direwolf, at her red fur and bright blue eyes. The princess's bed was empty but for shreds of linen lying atop the blankets…
"Gilly, her bedrobe?"
Without thinking Gilly obeyed, fetching the princess's grey silk bedrobe. Ser Olyvar took it from her, draping it over the direwolf's back. The direwolf snarled once more at the assassin, then convulsed. Fur fell away in clumps, sharp claws shrank into long fingers, and Princess Sansa clasped the bedrobe about herself, angrier than Gilly had ever seen her.
"As I said, Lord Robett," the skinchanger growled, "enough."
The dumbfounded lord scrambled for the closest chamber pot. As he gagged and heaved Gilly helped the princess into a fresh shift, Ser Olyvar carefully looking everywhere except at his naked wife. The princess's hair was a tangled mess; lacking any better idea, Gilly fetched a brush and began gently working through the knots.
"So," Ser Olyvar asked as Lord Robett continued to clutch the chamber pot. "That was. Umm..."
"He wasn't listening," Princess Sansa muttered under her breath. "He called you a raper!"
"My apologies, princess," a haggard voice called from the corner.
"For failing to listen to me every time we spoke for the past several weeks, or for impugning the honor of the knight who saved my life twice over? I would have thought slaying the Mountain and rescuing me from Queen Cersei's clutches might warrant some respect."
Lord Robett vomited again; at a gesture from the princess Ser Olyvar sighed and brought the lord a flagon of water. He rose to his feet on unsteady legs, accepting the flagon with a grumble of thanks before drinking greedily.
"Gilly, I think Kit would benefit from a stroll around the courtyard," the princess said when Gilly finished brushing her hair. Gilly curtsied, fetched her sleeping babe from his basket, and gratefully left the room.
Still, as she circled the courtyard, dewdrops sparkling in the moonlight, she could not help but overhear some of the whispered argument.
"The King in the North—"
"Is my brother, and I am your princess! Did King Robb tell you to steal me from my bed?"
"— the queen wanted to wed her to the likes of Sandor Clegane or Ilyn Payne, but when she asked my father for poison—"
"—never laid a hand on me, I swear by the old gods and the new, how many times must I say it? He swore a solemn vow—"
"I do miss my brother, and Arya, and Bran and Rickon, but—"
"— three dragons. Three! Have you not heard the sailors' talk? If Daenerys Targaryen crosses the Narrow Sea—"
"— Torrhen knelt, but what if Daenerys is as mad as her father? Better to—"
"— one more word against Brienne of Tarth, and—"
"—cannot be trusted. Perhaps if you had northmen to guard you—"
On and on the nobles argued, and all the while Gilly thought. She might remain in Sunspear, where she knew the halls of the Old Palace and perhaps a quarter of the servants. She could go to the Water Gardens, smaller and less familiar. Or she could agree to accompany Princess Sansa across the sea.
"Gilly?" Princess Sansa called from the arched doorway, her long hair trailing down her back. "They're gone; you can come back now." The princess shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Rya already fetched the tea, I hoped you would break your fast with me. I owe you an explanation."
Gilly blinked. Eat beside a princess, as if she were highborn herself? It wasn't even a command, it was an invitation. Princess Sansa wished to speak with her. Princess Sansa thought she owed Gilly answers. Gilly swallowed, her mind made up.
Standing on the deck of the Cinnamon Wind a few weeks later, Gilly reconsidered her decision. She had forgotten how badly her stomach churned as the swan ship rolled upon the waves; she could feel herself turning green. How could Kit sleep below as if nothing was amiss?
"Welcome back, Gilly!" A strong hand clapped her on the back, and Gilly heaved her guts out over the ship's railing.
"Still adjusting?" Kojja Mo's voice was as rich as her dark skin. When Gilly turned she saw that the captain's daughter had Kit slung over her hip; he was enthusiastically attempting to cram a chubby fist his mouth.
"As sweet as I remembered, though much bigger," Kojja teased. She and the other women in the crew had doted upon Kit the entire journey south from Eastwatch, singing to him and bouncing him on their knees. "My cousin's daughter is near the same age, already running everywhere. He wept like a baby when we left her back in Tall Trees Town with her mother."
"Oh," Gilly said, the taste of bile still in her mouth. "Is he helping your father with the ship?"
Kojja laughed. "No, no. Malthar captains his own ship." She pointed across the rolling waves. The Cinnamon Wind was but one of half a dozen swan ships that had weighed anchor at Planky Town the day before. "You see? That one is Sweet Nutmeg. Behind her is my sister Atalaya's ship, the Bitter Clove." Kojja turned, pointing the other direction. "There is Anise Breeze, my great-uncle's ship. Father swears he didn't name this ship after great-uncle's, but no one believes him. The other two belong to Chatana Qhoru."
"Is Chatana another cousin?"
Kojja bounced Kit on her hip. "Oh, no. Chatana had a child with a Dornish prince; when we dropped anchor in Tall Trees Town she sent her mate across to ask for news. When she heard of the dragons, nothing would stop her from joining our little fleet."
"Dragons," Gilly repeated faintly. She had really, really hoped that the sailors were lying, despite overhearing Princess Sansa and Ser Olyvar arguing with Lord Robett about them.
"My father saw them himself, in Qarth. They were the size of cats." For a moment Gilly felt slightly better. "Oh, but that was nearly two years ago, I suppose they would be much larger now."
She no longer felt better.
Over the next several weeks Gilly settled into the routine aboard ship. She nursed Kit and Sylva just as she always had, though now she only had to walk a few paces between the princess's cabin and that of Lady Toland. Swan ships were built for trade, not passengers, so space was very limited. Ser Olyvar shared Princess Sansa's cabin, both of them sleeping in so many layers one would think a septon might burst in on them at any moment. Gilly slept on a pallet on the floor, as did Ser Olyvar's squire. Lord Robett had the adjoining cabin, his temper little sweeter than it had been the night he burst into the princess's rooms. He still disapproved of Princess Sansa's refusal to return north, though he no longer glared at Ser Olyvar. Not much, anyway.
When she was not nursing Gilly usually had lessons with Princess Sansa. Gilly continued to learn the tasks of a lady's maid, such as mending gowns amongst other things. She practiced her needlework while Princess Sansa practiced the high harp and Lady Toland cooed over her great-niece, occasionally pausing to correct Princess Sansa's mistakes.
Ser Olyvar spent most of his time on deck, sparring with his squire Edric Dayne or learning High Valyrian from fussy old Maester Lonnel. Princess Sansa already knew some High Valyrian, and Lady Toland taught her more, being already fluent. Since most of the Free Cities spoke some form of Valyrian, even Gilly was expected to practice the smooth tongue.
Lady Brienne of Tarth joined those lessons as well, her large frame taking up half the princess's cabin. To her annoyance there was not enough room for her to sleep near her charge; with so few cabins, she had chosen to sleep in a hammock in the women's cabin with the crew.
The rest of the Dornish and northmen were scattered across the other swan ships. Gilly only saw them when they stopped in port to refill their casks of precious water and take on fresh food.
It took six days to reach Lys, and a single afternoon to resupply. The time passed in a blur; she found the crowds of pale haired Lyseni unsettling after so long beyond the Wall and then in Dorne, where blondes were scarce and only elders had grey hair. The Lyseni's purple eyes were even more unsettling; Kit hid in her robes rather than look at them. Gilly was grateful that Kit was too young to ask her about the slave collars worn by three out of every four men.
While they waited for casks of fresh water to be brought over Ser Deziel Dalt came aboard the Cinnamon Wind, casting a bemused look at the turban Ser Olyvar had worn since they departed Dorne. With the best of intentions Gilly could not help overhearing them from where she'd climbed the rigging for a better view of Lys, having handed Kit over to Kojja.
"Are turbans fashionable in the Free Cities, then, or did you lose a bet with someone?"
"I'll explain later," Ser Olyvar groaned, one hand over his face. "I still can't believe Daemon left like that."
"Now, how could you say such a thing? The Kingsguard is a noble order, the worthiest in all the land." Ser Deziel's shoulders shook with repressed laughter.
"Just because your plants enjoy a ripe coating of manure doesn't mean I do," Ser Olyvar replied.
"You should pay me a dragon for saying that with a straight face. It's not like it was much of a surprise, with things still so awkward between him and Arianne."
"Oh, is that why you volunteered to join us when we went to King's Landing?"
Ser Deziel winced. "Oh, look, it bites. That wound has healed, thank you very much."
"I never understood what drew you to her. Arianne hates getting dirty with a passion; I don't think she ever sets foot in a garden unless there's a well tended path."
"I…" Ser Deziel paused, thoughtful. "It was never about whether or not she loved plants as I do. What drew me to Arianne was her spirit, her determination, the strength of her convictions. The most beautiful trees are not those with dainty blossoms or graceful limbs, but those that survive despite adversity, that persevere even in the poorest soil."
"I think my many, many thriving sisters are proof that the soil of House Nymeros Martell is as rich as any."
Ser Deziel laughed. "You knew that was not what I meant. Ah, well. Perhaps I'll meet a beauty on our travels. Ser Daemon already met his, the poor fellow."
"He did?"
Ser Deziel burst into laughter. "Oh, Olyvar. Never change. If you're not going to listen to gossip you should at least ask Nym or Sansa to keep you in the loop."
"Which gossip?"
"Did you not hear Alyse Ladybright teasing Daemon about how unchivalrous it would be to leave a handsome Dornish prince all alone with no protection but a gaggle of greybeards?"
There was a moment of silence, then Ser Olyvar choked. "I didn't need to know that!"
Gilly didn't know who Ser Daemon was, but she did know that her breasts were sore, and that meant she should nurse the babes. She clambered down from the rigging, and that was the last she saw of Lys.
It was another ten days before they reached Volantis, oldest of the Free Cities. There they paused for three days, so that the Summer Islanders might sell some of the goods in their ships' holds and take on new goods.
To Gilly's confusion, only a few hours after dropping anchor all the Dornish nobles assembled upon the dock, along with one of the Summer Islander captains. Gilly stood behind Princess Sansa, as she always did, garbed in her second best gown. There were half a dozen Dornish ladies and their maids, a similar number of knights and squires, plus the two maesters.
"Why are we standing like this?" Princess Sansa quietly asked Lady Nymeria Sand.
"Volantenes have very set ideas about matters of consequence," Lady Nymeria said.
"Your mother is so haughty she makes the Lannisters seem humble," Ser Olyvar muttered. Princess Sansa winced.
Conversation flowed as they waited. Ser Deziel was rambling about Essosi flowers, Brienne of Tarth listening politely. The Summer Island captain, a handsome middle aged woman, was telling one of the maesters about the various meanings behind the feathered cloaks Summer Islanders wore.
Gilly did not speak to anyone, content to watch the docks bustle with activity. After a while Gilly saw the crowds parting in the distance, making way for a procession of bare chested men in golden collars who carried a pair of gilded boxes with open sides. As they drew closer Gilly saw that the boxes were ornately carved and set with glittering jewels; the curtains were of a cloth she'd never seen before, as thin and light as a spider's web.
When the boxes finally reached the Cinnamon Wind Gilly realized that each box bore a lady garbed in silks and draped with jewels. The ladies shared a similar look, with deep silver-blonde hair and blue-purple eyes.
The elder of the two women began to talk rapidly in High Valyrian, her gaze resting on Lady Nymeria. After a moment she paused, sighing dramatically.
"And your father spoke High Valyrian so eloquently. Such a shame, I suppose your Common Tongue will have to do. Well, are you going to introduce your guests?"
"Of course, mother." Lady Nymeria stood as straight and stiff as a spear. "This is my brother, Ser Olyvar Sand, his wife, Princess Sansa Stark, and his squire, Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall. Brienne of Tarth, sworn shield to Princess Sansa. Ser Gulian Qorgyle, heir to Sandstone. Lady Nymella Toland, Lady of Ghost Hill. Ser Deziel Dalt, the knight of Lemonwood. Lady Jennelyn Fowler, Lady Jynessa Blackmont, and her brother, Perros Blackmont. Ser Symon Wyl, and his squire, Arron Sand. Chatana Qhoru, captain of the Swift Arrow, and mother to my sister Sarella."
"Lords and ladies, I present to you Nyessara Vhassar, daughter of former triarch Belicho, sister to current triarch Nyessos."
The noblewoman heaved a dramatic sigh. "You forgot widow to triarch Horonno, but of course, that was before you were born."
"Nyessara," the other noblewoman gently scolded.
"And," Lady Nymeria continued, "my aunt, Tessaria Vhassar, daughter of former triarch Belicho, sister to current triarch Nyessos."
"Was that so hard?" Nyessara laughed gaily. "I thought to bring your sisters, but they're so busy. Already I've had to turn down three offers for Nyella's hand, and her only just turned nineteen." She tsked. "Her hair is quite like yours, though a much prettier shade. One of her suitors said it looked like spun moonlight. And Nyerra has such lovely eyes, a true lavender rarely seen even within the walls of Old Volantis."
Gilly blinked. Lady Nym was very beautiful, but she had hair and eyes as dark as a raven's wings. Surely her own mother wouldn't—
"Such a pity that you got your father's looks. I was just telling Tessaria the other day, how unfortunate it was that you were born so dark. Tessaria, I said, it would be such a help to have an elder daughter to help manage the palace, Nyella has such trouble with the slaves— oh, that reminds me, I brought you some gifts. I had thought to give you some nice slaves, perhaps a scribe, a few handmaidens, a pleasure slave or two, but Tessaria reminded me you'd be forced to free them in Westeros, and we couldn't have that."
The noblewoman waved a lazy hand, and several slaves came forward, each bearing a chest.
"There's a cyvasse set of solid gold and silver set with gems, sweet volantene red wines from the Vhassar vineyards, oh, and a few Rhoynar artifacts from the ruins of Sarhoy. Or was it Chroyane?" She shrugged elegantly. "Either way, they were gathering dust and Tessaria thought you might like them."
"You are generous as always, mother," Lady Nym said courteously. "We are in port for three days; might we stay with you? I should like to see my sisters, and spend time with you, of course."
"Oh, darling, no!" Nyessara placed a hand on her bosom, her face dismayed. "No, no, seeing you at the docks will already cause such a scandal. Westerosi are very out of fashion, what with all the talk of slave revolts to the east. No, you had best find rooms at one of the inns by the docks, though not the Merchant's House." She shuddered. "Why Nyessos won't arrest Vogarro's old whore…"
"Dysaria owns half the piers and storehouses west of the Rhoyne, as Nyessos has told you." Tessaria's voice was no less elegant, but there was a warmth to it that Nyessara lacked.
"I cannot stand talking of that vile harlot." Nyessara shuddered. "Do enjoy the gifts, Nymeria, it was lovely seeing you." She called out an order in High Valyrian, and her slaves carried her away.
Tessaria remained, a vaguely irritated look upon her face. "My apologies, niece. The Merchant's House is perfectly adequate; few inns will take Westerosi, not with the triarchs talking of expelling them like the Braavosi." She glanced at the swan ships. "I should warn you, Summer Islanders are not very welcome either."
"Because we oppose the fleshmongers as we always have?" Chatana Qhoru was of average height, but she seemed taller as she glared at the Volantene noblewoman, magnificent in a feathered cloak of green and blue.
"Why, yes," Tessaria answered, one thin eyebrow raised. "They thought the Golden Company would cast down the dragon queen; instead they serve her, and now the queen has wedded the Lyseni merchant who hired them. The very name Daenerys Targaryen is enough to make a freeborn Volantene shake in his boots."
"You look steady enough to me," Chatana replied.
Tessaria shrugged a smooth shoulder. "I have other troubles. Fortune has been unfriendly of late; I keep losing my slaves betting on cyvasse." She did not seem bothered by this misfortune. "As I said, you should stay at the Merchant's House. Speak with Dysaria if you can; you'll find her in the common room. Be mindful how you speak to her; she may be a wrinkled old crone but she's sharper than Valyrian steel."
Unnoticed by anyone but Gilly, Princess Sansa and Ser Olyvar exchanged a worried glance. Perhaps Lord Robett was right; perhaps they were hiding something. But whatever they were hiding, it was too late for Gilly to choose another path.
Can't wait to see what you guys think!
This chapter was like pulling teeth. No idea why, love Gilly, but writing a servant POV is quite tricky, as is writing Sansa and Olyvar from such a different perspective. Thanks to PA2 for helping me wrangle it into shape.
NOTES
1) Moorish fashion is really neat, and very different from medieval fashion outside the Iberian peninsula. Thanks to PurpleMuffin, an Egyptian reader, for the detail of everyone removing shoes indoors :)
2) In medieval Europe, body servants for the nobility would typically be fellow nobles, pages, squires, and ladies-in-waiting. GRRM is all over the place; in GOT we see Tyrion has a valet/manservant, Ned's body servants are also members of his personal guard, and Sansa has random maids. In CoK onward, we see Tyrion and Jaime having squires as their body servants, which is more accurate, but Cersei and Sansa still have random maids tending to their personal needs (bathing, dressing, etc) instead of nobly born ladies in waiting. It's a weird inconsistency but I'm keeping it because otherwise everything with Meri and later Gilly wouldn't work.
3) I was absolutely delighted when I realized that in canon, no one bothered to make Gilly swear a vow of silence regarding Bran! Sam swore to Bran, Jojen, and Coldhands, but they completely overlooked the wildling girl nursing her baby! At one point when they first meet, Bran asks Sam not to tell:
"Sam looked confused for a moment, but finally he said, 'I… I can keep a secret. Gilly too.' When he looked at her, the girl nodded."
Gilly nodded. That's it. She didn't swear any kind of oath, and she's got a practical bent to her, none of this obsession with a noble's honor. She sees Sansa upset about Bran? She tells.
4) Apparently Egypt has been obsessed with tea since the 1500s. Technically that's early modern period, but fuck it, it's a cute detail. Again, thanks PurpleMuffin!
5) Sansa's and Robett's letters to Robb will never appear on page, but their contents can be summarized as follows:
Sansa: "So, good news, Bran is alive as of a year ago, he went beyond the wall to learn greenseeing from a three-eyed crow. No, I don't know what that means either. Bad news, I can't come home, Olyvar and I are sailing east because there's a Targ queen with three dragons and we need to see if she's gonna try to murder us all, and stop her if need be. Also Robett tried to kidnap me and I am really annoyed about it, for the millionth time I swear Olyvar is treating me well. Love you lots, miss you very much."
Jfc, no wonder Arya dropped an f-bomb.
Robett: I'm so, SO sorry Your Grace, I swear I tried to stop Princess Sansa, but since I couldn't stop her I'm following her to Meereen. I only agreed to this because when I tried to rescue her in the middle of the night she turned into a direwolf and almost bit my face off, and now I'm too scared to keep arguing with her."
6) Calculating travel times remains a bitch and a half. We'll learn more about the purpose of the swan ship fleet later on.
7) I invented Chatana Qhoru because once the idea occurred to me I couldn't resist. Also, just FYI I'm dropping the weirdass all-sex-all-the-time bullshit GRRM decided was absolutely necessary for his pseudo Caribbean islands full of Black people. Rereading the canon scene where Kojja tells Sam to fuck Gilly or get thrown overboard was so goddamn Yikes.
8) Nyessara is partially based on Mother Gothel from Tangled. She's the absolute worst. Real subtle, naming all your daughters after yourself. Not at all narcissistic. Oh, and naming the one with the Dornish father after the most famous Dornish queen? Woooow, A, not at all lazy or basic.